Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

CreationEarth Nature Photos

Best Famous Carl Sandburg Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Carl Sandburg poems. This is a select list of the best famous Carl Sandburg poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Carl Sandburg poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Carl Sandburg poems.

Search for the best famous Carl Sandburg poems, articles about Carl Sandburg poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Carl Sandburg poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Famous poems below this ad
Written by Carl Sandburg |

Under the Harvest Moon

 Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Three Pieces on the Smoke of Autumn

 SMOKE of autumn is on it all.
The streamers loosen and travel.
The red west is stopped with a gray haze.
They fill the ash trees, they wrap the oaks, They make a long-tailed rider In the pocket of the first, the earliest evening star.
Three muskrats swim west on the Desplaines River.
There is a sheet of red ember glow on the river; it is dusk; and the muskrats one by one go on patrol routes west.
Around each slippery padding rat, a fan of ripples; in the silence of dusk a faint wash of ripples, the padding of the rats going west, in a dark and shivering river gold.
(A newspaper in my pocket says the Germans pierce the Italian line; I have letters from poets and sculptors in Greenwich Village; I have letters from an ambulance man in France and an I.
man in Vladivostok.
) I lean on an ash and watch the lights fall, the red ember glow, and three muskrats swim west in a fan of ripples on a sheet of river gold.
Better the blue silence and the gray west, The autumn mist on the river, And not any hate and not any love, And not anything at all of the keen and the deep: Only the peace of a dog head on a barn floor, And the new corn shoveled in bushels And the pumpkins brought from the corn rows, Umber lights of the dark, Umber lanterns of the loam dark.
Here a dog head dreams.
Not any hate, not any love.
Not anything but dreams.
Brother of dusk and umber.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Corn Hut Talk

 WRITE your wishes
 on the door
 and come in.
Stand outside in the pools of the harvest moon.
Bring in the handshake of the pumpkins.
There’s a wish for every hazel nut? There’s a hope for every corn shock? There’s a kiss for every clumsy climbing shadow? Clover and the bumblebees once, high winds and November rain now.
Buy shoes for rough weather in November.
Buy shirts to sleep outdoors when May comes.
Buy me something useless to remember you by.
Send me a sumach leaf from an Illinois hill.
In the faces marching in the firelog flickers, In the fire music of wood singing to winter, Make my face march through the purple and ashes.
Make me one of the fire singers to winter.

More great poems below...

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Theme In Yellow

 I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon; I am a jack-o'-lantern With terrible teeth And the children know I am fooling.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Always the Mob

 JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob.
The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all.
Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob.
Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob.
The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan.
Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now.
Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow.
The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples.
Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons.
The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening… The mob … kills or builds … the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln.
I am born in the mob—I die in the mob—the same goes for you—I don’t care who you are.
I cross the sheets of fire in No Man’s land for you, my brother—I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother—I die for you and I kill you—It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool: One more arch of stars, In the night of our mist, In the night of our tears.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Letters To Dead Imagists

You gave us the bumble bee who has a soul,
The everlasting traveler among the hollyhocks,
And how God plays around a back yard garden.
STEVIE CRANE: War is kind and we never knew the kindness of war till you came; Nor the black riders and clashes of spear and shield out of the sea, Nor the mumblings and shouts that rise from dreams on call.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


Out of your many faces
Flash memories to me
Now at the day end
Away from the sidewalks
Where your shoe soles traveled
And your voices rose and blend
To form the city's afternoon roar
Hindering an old silence.
Passers-by, I remember lean ones among you, Throats in the clutch of a hope, Lips written over with strivings, Mouths that kiss only for love.
Records of great wishes slept with, Held long And prayed and toiled for.
Yes, Written on Your mouths And your throats I read them When you passed by.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Man the Man-Hunter

 I SAW Man, the man-hunter,
Hunting with a torch in one hand
And a kerosene can in the other,
Hunting with guns, ropes, shackles.
I listened And the high cry rang, The high cry of Man, the man-hunter: We’ll get you yet, you sbxyzch! I listened later.
The high cry rang: Kill him! kill him! the sbxyzch! In the morning the sun saw Two butts of something, a smoking rump, And a warning in charred wood: Well, we got him, the sbxyzch.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 ROSES and gold
For you today,
And the flash of flying flags.
I will have Ashes, Dust in my hair, Crushes of hoofs.
Your name Fills the mouth Of rich man and poor.
Women bring Armfuls of flowers And throw on you.
I go hungry Down in dreams And loneliness, Across the rain To slashed hills Where men wait and hope for me.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 I WAS a boy when I heard three red words
a thousand Frenchmen died in the streets
for: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity—I asked
why men die for words.
I was older; men with mustaches, sideburns, lilacs, told me the high golden words are: Mother, Home, and Heaven—other older men with face decorations said: God, Duty, Immortality —they sang these threes slow from deep lungs.
Years ticked off their say-so on the great clocks of doom and damnation, soup and nuts: meteors flashed their say-so: and out of great Russia came three dusky syllables workmen took guns and went out to die for: Bread, Peace, Land.
And I met a marine of the U.
, a leatherneck with a girl on his knee for a memory in ports circling the earth and he said: Tell me how to say three things and I always get by—gimme a plate of ham and eggs—how much?—and—do you love me, kid?

Written by Carl Sandburg |

A Tall Man

 THE MOUTH of this man is a gaunt strong mouth.
The head of this man is a gaunt strong head.
The jaws of this man are bone of the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians.
The eyes of this man are chlorine of two sobbing oceans, Foam, salt, green, wind, the changing unknown.
The neck of this man is pith of buffalo prairie, old longing and new beckoning of corn belt or cotton belt, Either a proud Sequoia trunk of the wilderness Or huddling lumber of a sawmill waiting to be a roof.
Brother mystery to man and mob mystery, Brother cryptic to lifted cryptic hands, He is night and abyss, he is white sky of sun, he is the head of the people.
The heart of him the red drops of the people, The wish of him the steady gray-eagle crag-hunting flights of the people.
Humble dust of a wheel-worn road, Slashed sod under the iron-shining plow, These of service in him, these and many cities, many borders, many wrangles between Alaska and the Isthmus, between the Isthmus and the Horn, and east and west of Omaha, and east and west of Paris, Berlin, Petrograd.
The blood in his right wrist and the blood in his left wrist run with the right wrist wisdom of the many and the left wrist wisdom of the many.
It is the many he knows, the gaunt strong hunger of the many.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 GUNS on the battle lines have pounded now a year
between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on the great arches and naves and little whimsical corners of the Churches of Northern France--Brr-rr! I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory instead of a living man--I'm glad you're gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the shape of those stones piled and carved for you to dream over and wonder because workmen got joy of life into them, Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and praying, and putting their songs and prayers into the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones and gargoyles--all their children and kisses of women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad you're a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between Brussels and Paris.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 TOMB of a millionaire,
A multi-millionaire, ladies and gentlemen,
Place of the dead where they spend every year
The usury of twenty-five thousand dollars
For upkeep and flowers
To keep fresh the memory of the dead.
The merchant prince gone to dust Commanded in his written will Over the signed name of his last testament Twenty-five thousand dollars be set aside For roses, lilacs, hydrangeas, tulips, For perfume and color, sweetness of remembrance Around his last long home.
(A hundred cash girls want nickels to go to the movies to-night.
In the back stalls of a hundred saloons, women are at tables Drinking with men or waiting for men jingling loose silver dollars in their pockets.
In a hundred furnished rooms is a girl who sells silk or dress goods or leather stuff for six dollars a week wages And when she pulls on her stockings in the morning she is reckless about God and the newspapers and the police, the talk of her home town or the name people call her.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 I ASKED the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 IF I had a million lives to live
 and a million deaths to die
 in a million humdrum worlds,
I’d like to change my name
 and have a new house number to go by
 each and every time I died
 and started life all over again.
I wouldn’t want the same name every time and the same old house number always, dying a million deaths, dying one by one a million times: —would you? or you? or you?